


Turning the Tables

by bbcatemysoul



Series: 50 Ways to Feed Your Lover [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Feeding Kink, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1610444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bbcatemysoul/pseuds/bbcatemysoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When both of John's arms are temporarily out of commission, Sherlock has to do the feeding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning the Tables

 

* * *

 

“I'm sorry, John,” Sherlock rasped out again as he steered John through the door to the flat. “I really didn't-”

“For the last time, Sherlock, I'm not angry,” John replied, swaying on his feet as Sherlock pulled his own heavy Belstaff from where it was draped around John's shoulders. “It wasn't your fault.”

It was though, and John would likely realize that if he weren't on painkillers. Well, and perhaps if John were a bit more inclined to doing complex mathematical calculations in his head. Had Sherlock not miscalculated in the frenzied panic of the moment, John ought to have come to rest safely at the edge of the landing and not gone tumbling down a flight of stairs.

“Oh, stop it,” John sighed, sinking gingerly down onto the sofa, wincing as he jostled one of his arm slings. “I can see you contemplating geometry and the laws of physics inside your ridiculous head. It's fine, Sherlock. It's a broken arm and a sprained- well, fairly badly sprained- wrist. As the alternative was getting my brains blown out, I can't say I mind.”

A pang of guilt clenched in Sherlock's gut as he turned away to hang his coat on the hook. Of course John would forgive him his error; John never held it against him when he made a mistake, and had forgiven far worse over the course of their years together. Perhaps one day, Sherlock would get around to trying to make up for some of it, instead of doing more things John had to forgive him for.

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked without turning around.

The negative shake of John's head was audible in the silent flat as his hair brushed back and forth over the leather sofa cushion. “Sherlock, right now I'm not even sure how I'm going to wipe my own arse. There's no way I'm cooking, much less feeding you.”

Without giving a reply, Sherlock left John beginning to doze on the sofa and wandered into the kitchen. A brief perusal of the contents of the refrigerator and the cupboards showed that there wasn't much in. He would have to make do. He switched on the kettle and set about heating the food, cursing to himself as he carelessly let two pans clatter against each other. Cooking was obviously one of the most difficult things in the world to do without waking a sleeping person. Cooking, and stealing John's gun from the drawer with the warped slider that screeched whenever the drawer opened (hiding his gun there was one of the cleverer things John had done over the years, Sherlock would admit).

John's eyes slowly blinked open as Sherlock emerged from the kitchen with a tray. Under the influence of painkillers, John's smile of surprised approval was a bit drowsier and goofier than normal, and perhaps too easily obtained, but under the circumstances, Sherlock felt he ought not be critical.

Then John saw the contents of the tray and his brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Sausages... and peas? That's dinner?”

“There wasn't anything else in and you would have complained if I woke Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock snapped defensively, removing the cup of tea from the tray and placing it on the table, before balancing the tray itself across John's knees.

John attempted to raise a hand to placate Sherlock, then sucked in his breath in pain as he realized his mistake. “Sorry,” he groaned. “You're right. I appreciate you cooking. I'm starv-” he broke off as Sherlock sank to his knees in front of John and the dinner tray. “What are you doing?”

“Feeding you your dinner, obviously.” There was the goofy, drowsy smile again. Sherlock had to admit that it was growing on him, actually, and it was a shame John would only be on the painkillers for a few days. He would have to savour it while it lasted, and file it away for future reflection.

It felt a bit surreal, being the one holding the utensils and feeding John, rather than the other way around. Forbidden, even. A shiver ran down Sherlock's spine as he cut a piece of the sausage, gently so as not to jostle John's injured arms or upset the tray, and raised the fork to John's lips. John bit, and chewed, and Sherlock couldn't resist the temptation to lay his fingertips alongside John's (rough; approximately 16 hours since last shave) jaw and feel the muscles working.

“Tea?” John asked, his voice soft.

Sherlock lay the fork down on the tray and reached for the mug on the table, lifting it to John's lips with one hand, while the thumb of his other hand slid down to John's throat to feel him swallow. He shifted on his knees, trying to accommodate the sudden decrease in space in his trousers.

“All right?” John asked.

Of course he had noticed. This, he always noticed.

This feeding thing was difficult, Sherlock thought, taking a few slow breaths to still the tremor of anticipation in his hands as he loaded up the fork with another bite. How did John always manage this with such calm control?

Three more bites, and Sherlock could hear his breath growing uneven as he watched John's thin lips pulling along the tines of the fork. On the next bite, one of the peas fell on its way to John's mouth and settled in the folds of his brown-and-white checked shirt, and Sherlock leaned forward to pluck it away with his own lips, gingerly, just above the edge of the left arm sling. The fabric muffled his soft moan, but John heard it, and Sherlock heard John's breath catch in response.

Slowly, so slowly, with several pauses for tea along the way, the neatly-arranged sausage links and the pile of peas diminished, until finally it was empty and Sherlock let the utensils clatter onto the plate. Removing the tray and setting it out of the way on the table, Sherlock rested his hands on John's thighs and leaned forward, nuzzling his face against John's groin. The fabric of John's trousers was warm and soft against Sherlock's nose and cheek, and he could feel two of John's fingers curling into his hair.

“I don't think that's going to work, not tonight,” John observed, voice laced with regret. “I'm exhausted, I'm in pain, and I'm loopy on painkillers.”

“Sorry.” Embarrassed, Sherlock pulled away and rocked back on his heels. “I'll just... I'll clear the dishes.” Of course John wouldn't be in the mood. He should have realized. He had meant to take care of John, not get horny over some peas and try to climb into the lap of the man he had inadvertently thrown down a flight of stairs several hours earlier.

“Wait, don't I get a show first?” John asked, licking his lips and extending one leg to run the toe of his shoe along the outside of Sherlock's thigh. “I told you, I'm not angry with you. Let me see.”

Sherlock nodded, fumbling with his flies and shifting to push his trousers and pants down past his hips. He met John's eyes and moaned, taken aback as he always was by the unabashed admiration and want in that familiar deep blue gaze. He rested his left hand on John's thigh, and let his eyelids droop and his mouth fall open as he curled his right hand around himself.

He felt John's quadriceps tense beneath his left hand.

“Beautiful,” John breathed, and Sherlock groaned and clutched at the fabric of John's trousers.

The flat seemed so silent and still around them, outside of this tiny spot filled with Sherlock's ragged breathing, the stroke of flesh on flesh, and John's quiet praise.

“You were brilliant today, Sherlock,” John continued in his calm, even voice, though Sherlock could hear his smile (yes, the goofy one from the painkillers, he cracked his eyes open enough to confirm). “Brilliant. Amazing. I love you.”

“Oh god,” Sherlock's voice cracked and he leaned forward, burying his face against John's belly as he came. As he struggled to draw complete breaths into his lungs, he felt John's fingers brushing against his scalp again.

“You ought to go to bed,” Sherlock suggested, voice muffled by John's shirt. He pulled back and got to his feet, attempting to look stern while putting his clothes in order. “If you want the bed to yourself, I don't mind, I'll-”

“No, you idiot, I want you to leave the bloody dishes where they are, not that I would expect you to do otherwise, clean yourself up, and come get in bed with me,” John ordered, struggling to push himself to his feet and glaring when Sherlock tried to assist him. “But I wouldn't mind if you stayed on your own half for once.”

* * *

 


End file.
